Just Jane (25 page)

Molly rushed forward, screaming, “No, missus, don't!”

But her protest was drowned in a flash of lightning and an ear-shattering blast. Echoes returned from the far reaches of the house, and when they had died away, only Molly's terrified whimpering remained.

“Stop that, Molly,” Harriet said severely. “Go find Dr. Jeffers and inform him that I have just shot Mr. Robert Prentice. Go!”

Molly fled, and Harriet turned her attention to her victim. Robert lay in shock, blood spreading across his chest. Groaning, he tried to rise, then fell back to the floor.

“Dear me,” Harriet said without emotion. “I'm afraid I didn't quite accomplish my purpose. Still, in all modesty, I think I've done a valiant deed this day.” Serenely calm, she made her leisurely way back up the stairs.

 

It was night—that much he could tell from the darkness that was held at bay by a single lamp burning off to one side. As awareness gradually returned, he realized that he was lying in bed and someone was sitting beside him. He squinted, forced his eyes to focus, and saw that it was Jane. Briefly he wondered where they were, and why she was there. As memory returned in a vivid, horrifying rush, he twisted and turned. Hot pain raged through his upper body.

“Jane—My God, Jane, we've lost—”

“Shhh,”
Her cool fingertips stroked his brow. “You've been badly hurt, Uncle Robert. Your arm and shoulder are all bandaged, and the doctor wants you to keep very still.”

His eyes roamed. “Brandon . . . we've lost him. He died a hero, and they want to hide him away in the night like a common thief! Don't let them do it, Jane. Don't let them!”

“It's already done, and Brandon's at peace. So just let it be.”

“God, what an abomination!” He closed his eyes for a moment as if trying to shut out unbearable thoughts. “That fine young man, cut down in his prime. And my cherished dream of you and Brandon, master and mistress of Rosewall. Those silent rooms at last filled with the laughter of children. But it was never to be, was it? Even if he had lived—”

“No, Uncle Robert, it was never to be. I'm so sorry, I know I've disappointed you in many ways—”

“Don't say that, Jane. I've never told you how very dear you are to me. And with Brandon gone . . .” He fell silent for a moment, almost too overcome with emotion to speak. “What about Harriet?” he asked then.

“Dr. Jeffers finally got her moved to his house and gave her something to make her sleep. She has no memory of shooting you, and Molly claims she didn't see it. Can you tell us how it happened?”

He replied without hesitation. “It was an accident, and my fault entirely. I barged in without warning. Harriet came downstairs to investigate. The foyer was so dim, she didn't recognize me. Must've thought I was an intruder, got frightened, and fired. Simple as that.”

“So dim? It was broad daylight, Uncle Robert!”

“You must take my word on this, Jane.
It was an accident.”

“All right, if you say so. Do you think you could sleep now?

His feverish eyes locked on her face. “Jane, please come home. Someday Rosewall will be yours altogether, and you're needed there.”

“Please, Uncle Robert. You must rest now.”

“I'm sorry about that unfortunate business with Cordwyn. When I found out what he meant to you, I tried my best to make amends.”

“I know. Don't think about it anymore.”

“Then for mercy's sake, come back to us. You left such emptiness behind. Clarissa, without whom I couldn't live, lies ill and—”

“Ill?” Jane was instantly alarmed. “With what?”

“Swamp fever, they call it. She's never been sick before, and she's—she craves your forgiveness, too. The whole world is falling down around us, with rebels prowling the woods like bloodthirsty wolves.” Drained from the exertion of speech, he lay back, panting.

Again Jane's comforting touch was on his brow. “Please try to sleep, Uncle Robert. We'll talk about it tomorrow.”

The suggestion that had failed with Brandon the night before was more successful this time. Robert's eyes slowly closed as sedatives drew him into a deep slumber.

 

A few minutes later, Jane joined Hugh and Dr. Jeffers in the parlor. “He's finally asleep,” she reported to the doctor.

“Good,” he said. “And likely will be, for ten or twelve hours.”

“Did he say anything about the shooting?” Hugh asked.

“He says it was an accident,” Jane replied.

“An accident! Are you satisfied with that?”

“Yes, I am. I see no reason to doubt Uncle Robert's word.”

Hugh appealed to the doctor. “You find it believable, sir?”

“If Jane is satisfied with it,” he replied gravely, “then so am I.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Jane said. “So let's consider the matter closed. Now, how soon will my uncle be able to travel, do you think?”

“In a day or two, I'd say. He won't have much use of that right arm for months, but there's no reason he couldn't travel.”

“Good. Because I want to take him home as soon as possible.”

Hugh objected. “Jane, you said you'd never go to Rosewall again!”

“I said I'd never
live
there again, and I won't. But Uncle Robert needs to go home, and Clarissa lies ill with swamp fever. They need my help.”

“Then I'll come with you,” Hugh said, objections abandoned.

She smiled gratefully. “I hoped you'd say that.”

“I'll provide an ample supply of medication for the patient,” Dr. Jeffers put in, “and give you something for your aunt, as well. Swamp fever's quite common in the backcountry, but it shouldn't be difficult to treat.”

“That's kind of you, indeed. So, we'll leave as soon as you say it's all right. In the meantime . . .” Jane sighed as she pulled herself to her feet. “I'm rather tired, so if you gentlemen will excuse me . . .”

They bade her good night, and as she went out, the doctor looked after her in open admiration. “She's a remarkable young woman, Mr. Prentice.”

Hugh responded with a fond smile. “The most remarkable person, young or old, I have ever known.”

Slowly climbing the stairs on her way to bed, every step an effort, Jane didn't feel at all remarkable. All she felt was mind-numbing exhaustion, and a desperate yearning for the sweet forgetfulness of sleep.

On a golden day in late October, Hugh returned to Charlestown to find the city buzzing with excitement. News had come that General Cornwallis, his army half starved after a long siege by Washington's combined French and American forces at Yorktown, Virginia, had surrendered. The Lion of Britain, as his admirers liked to call him, was finally caged.

While Charlestown's British military government brooded over this calamity, the city's many Patriots danced in the streets and Loyalists kept out of sight. Where the war would go from here was still uncertain. But everyone knew that a major, perhaps critical, turning point had been reached.

 

Lydia greeted her returning husband with a barrage of questions. Why was he gone so long? What in the world had happened? And where was Jane?

Hugh told her the whole story—of Brandon's death; of Robert being wounded; of Jane's decision to take him home; and of his own to go with them. Mrs. Morley had been taken to Rosewall as well. She had been unnerved by the horrors falling upon the Dudley house, and now that old Mrs. Dudley was living with the Jeffers family, she wanted to be with Jane again.

The journey to Rosewall—thirty-five miles and a full day's travel in a jostling carriage—had been an ordeal for everyone, especially for the wounded man lying helpless while mercilessly tortured by every bump in the road. And his state of mind was not improved by hearing from travelers on the road about the British surrender at Yorktown. Robert had scoffed, claiming not to believe it, but anyone could see that he was severely shaken.

“By the time we arrived at Rosewall that evening,” Hugh said, going on with his story, “Robert had grown so weak he could scarcely move, and Clarissa was too ill with swamp fever to come downstairs. The only able-bodied people in the house were the two servants, Cuba and Omar. And would you believe it? That giant of a man, Omar, lifted Robert out of the carriage and carried him as tenderly as a baby into the house and upstairs to his room. A remarkable sight to see.”

“I'm sure it was,” Lydia agreed.

“Then, of course, it fell to Jane to break the news to Clarissa about Brandon's death, and Robert's being shot. She did it as gently as she could, but ill as Clarissa already was, she was hit pretty hard by it all.”

Lydia nodded thoughtfully. “Well, it's a sad story you tell, love. That poor Ainsley boy—and his mother going mad like that and shooting Robert. They're not really calling that an accident, are they?”

“Robert insists that it was, Jane insists we take his word for it, and no one else has shown any inclination to question it.”

“Then I guess that's the end of it. What worries me is, why didn't Jane come home with you?”

“With both Robert and Clarissa out of commission, she just feels she's needed there, at least for now. She'll come back as soon as she can.”

“Robert won't try to force her to stay for good?”

“No, he knows better than to try that. My chief worry is that one day Jane might find herself trapped there, unable to leave at all. You know, that fortress of Robert's has come under attack before. Never by any major force, but things are different now. With Cornwallis finished and the Redcoats pulling back toward Charlestown, the Patriots are taking control in the countryside. Rosewall's fields are already ravaged—bams burned, crops destroyed, livestock and field hands all gone. But Robert will never give up. Every other Loyalist in America might be ready to admit defeat, but not Robert. Never.”

“What on earth will he do?”

“Some time ago, he and a friend organized a militia group, thinking they can hole up behind that great wall of his and fight off any rebel attack. It's hard to believe they could find anyone who still wants to fight for the Loyalist cause. But he's got a whole troop of them, and they've set up camp right there on the grounds. Robert's certainly got the courage of his convictions. You can't help admiring that.”

“Indeed, I
can
help it.” Lydia got up to put the kettle on the fire. “Protecting poor addle-brained Harriet Ainsley by saying the shooting was an accident—that's all very gallant. But the rest is nothing but blind-fool stubbornness. I'll not waste a minute thinking about him—if only we could be certain Jane will be all right.”

Hugh fell into a pensive mood. “It was strange, being there. I hadn't set foot in that house in years. I must say, I was treated with perfect courtesy. Still, I felt like an intruder. When Jane saw me off this morning, I was sorry to leave her behind but very glad to be going.” He paused, shaking his head sadly. “When Robert and I came to America, we loved each other dearly, vowed to stick together always. What happened to us, Lydia?”

“War happened, love, and everything that goes with it. It's tom apart many people who belong together. Jane and Simon, for instance.”

“It's funny, she hasn't mentioned him for such a long time. But as I was leaving this morning, she asked me if I thought he'd ever come back. I said he will, of course. But, in fact, we don't even know if he's still alive.”

Neither felt inclined to pursue that gloomy thought. They knew there was no use in trying to peer into the shadows of the unknown.

Often mockingly called a fortress, Rosewall had become one in grim reality. Strewn with tents and campfires and other paraphernalia of a military camp, the once-lush gardens now lay trampled under horses' hooves, wagon wheels, and the heedless boots of soldiers. True, the fifty-odd militiamen gathered from the surrounding countryside were soldiers only in the loosest sense. Ranging from gangly youths to old men, they had in common only their willingness to defy those who would overthrow British rule in America.

With Robert injured, co-commander Louis Lambert ran the camp. Three weeks after his “accident” at Goose Creek, Robert's right arm remained useless, his strength drained by the slow healing process Dr. Jeffers had predicted. Clarissa, meanwhile, hovered between sickness and health, one day well enough to be up for a while, the next too weak to raise her head.

Despite all this, good order still prevailed inside the house. Thanks to the proven reliability of Omar and Cuba, Jane was able to concentrate on nursing her ailing aunt and uncle and trying to calm the frightened, endlessly hand-wringing Mrs. Morley. Robert required especially close attention. When Louis came to confer with Robert, Jane watched closely. When she saw that her uncle was tiring, she announced that he must rest and the meeting was over. Both men grumbled, but they obeyed. It was clear to all that inside the house at least, the youngest member of the family was in charge.

 

One unforgettable day, Jane had to take charge outside as well. She was alone in the parlor snatching a rare moment of rest late in the afternoon when Omar appeared in the doorway. “Trouble outside, miss,” he said. “Mr. Ainsley come, but Mr. Lambert won't let him in the gate.”

“Mr. Ains—” Jane gasped, rose, and flew out of the house. She found Arthur Ainsley standing just outside the gate, his horse's reins in his hand. A sentry stood with his rifle pointed directly at Arthur, while Louis Lambert shouted at the visitor that he was not welcome.

“How dare you, sir!” Pushing her way through the crowd, Jane confronted Louis, her eyes blazing.

“He's a damn traitor, Miss Jane!”

“He is Mrs. Prentice's brother, and you will treat him courteously! Omar, open the gate and look after Mr. Ainsley's horse,” she commanded. In seconds she was in Arthur's embrace. “Praise heaven, you're back!”